Shortly after, four men appeared at the mouth of the alley, one of whom was on horseback, and all approached at a quick pace toward a spot on the banks of the Tiber not more than ten yards from the boat in which the man was watching. When they came near he perceived that the horseman had the corpse of a dead man behind him, flung carelessly over the crupper, with the head and arms hanging over on one side, and the feet and legs on the other. When near the river, the horseman wheeled his horse and backed it to the brink. His companions then took the body from behind him, swung it to and fro several times to give it greater impetus, and then cast it as far as they could into the Tiber. The horseman then turned and gazed upon the shining surface of the river, upon which the moon was now pouring a flood of light.
"What is that black thing floating there?" he asked.
"It is his cloak," replied one of the others.
"Cast some stones upon it quick," said the horseman. His orders were obeyed, and the cloak disappeared.
When the boatman, many days afterward, told his story, upon being questioned as to whether he had seen anything particular on the fatal Wednesday night, he was asked with some surprise why he had not given information at once. He answered that within the last few years he had seen more than a hundred dead thrown into the Tiber, and had never considered it any business of his.
On the following day Rome was startled with the intelligence that the Duke of Gandia, the pope's eldest son--the only one, indeed, who possessed in any degree the love or respect of the people--was missing; and sinister rumours spread around.
But there was one man within the gates of Rome who knew the whole on the Wednesday night. Cæsar Borgia went not to bed when he returned from his mother's entertainment; but, dismissing all his train to rest, he waited for news of the events which he was well aware were to happen. I might give a fanciful picture of the agitation of his mind--of the listening ear and the straining eye, and the pallid cheek, and the quivering lip--and it might have every appearance of verisimilitude; for at that moment a brother was being murdered by his order. But it was not so. He sat upon velvet cushions, playing with a small, silky-haired monkey. He seemed as thoughtless, careless, and sportive as the poor beast itself. For half an hour he amused himself thus. He teased it, he irritated it, and then he soothed it. Again he teased it, and at length the monkey bit him, when, seizing it by the legs, he dashed its head against the floor, and the poor beast lay dead at his feet. He washed the blood from his hand with a handkerchief, and stood gazing at the dead brute with a face that betokened no grief or regret. At length he kicked the body into a corner, murmuring, "People must not bite me."
People! Did he think that monkey was his brother?
The only time when he showed some degree of agitation was when more than an hour and a half had elapsed since his return, and yet no tidings arrived. "Can they have failed?" he said, in a low voice; "can they have failed? Oh no, impossible!" and, sitting down again--for he had risen while the momentary fear crossed his mind--he took up a book and read some love songs of that day. Nearly another hour passed, and then a step was heard upon the staircase. The next instant a friar entered the room, and silently closed the door behind him.
"It is done your Eminence," said the man, approaching Borgia, and speaking low and quietly.